Thursday, November 27, 2008

Blowing Whistles

When will I learn my lesson about Token Gay Plays? Blowing Whistles was two hours of gays screaming at each other, with the odd brilliant one-liner. At times it wanted to be The Doll's House. At times it wanted to be Pinter/Orton/Victoria Wood. But mostly it just settled for tackling serious gay issues while ensuring the blonde one took his top off.

Despite international acclaim, Tim and I hated it. So, we decided to shove its message about the true meaning of Gay Pride and instead go for a sneering drink in 79 CXR. If you've never been, imagine the Queen Vic after a gaypocalypse. This is where the zombies would drink. It was dark, two old skinheads snogged up against the fire escape, and the toilets offended every law of hygiene and morality. People are either looking for a late drink or late sex. "This is the true meaning of Gay Pride," said Tim, and we clinked our glasses.

And then I started to laugh. When I was 21 my heart was broken by a model (It's an epic saga involving murder, drugs and the yellow trousers of the Junior Dean of Manchester College Oxford). Anyway, he was beautiful, he was nasty, and he never stopped with the impression that he was too good for me (his nicknames for me were "baldy", "fatty" and "pencil dick" - grrrr). He was the boyfriend who taught me that men aren't actually that good for you.

And there he was. After all these years. Standing in a dark corner of 79 CXR, between the fruit machine and a man with piercings and a comb-over. He's aged - well - but he's aged. He was wearing a jumper with a knitted snowflake pattern. And he was there!

Tim and I raised our glasses and smiled over at him. There we were, having an ironic late drink in the worst place we could find. And there he was. This was the best he could manage for his evening. Unsuccessfully cruising for sex in the last, last, last chance saloon. The man who'd been in magazines and Tara Palmer-Tomkinson's sister. Who'd been flown across the world by rich young record executives. And now he was having to shuffle aside so that a drunk lumberjack could spill his pint over the slot machine.

Sometimes, revenge may take a decade. But it comes. Of course, Lee will just say this proves that my taste in men has always been rubbish. And I'll agree. But I'll argue my timing has never been better.

I wasn't at Manchester College. But did get invited to High Table there. Which was how I discovered my loved one was having an affair. During the passing of the Port. When the Junior Dean asked, "And how long have you known my boyfriend?"

It is indecorous to put the port down during High Table. It's also bad form to yell out "YOUR WHAT????". Two shiny new facts.

To try and distract from the social awkwardness he set fire to the flat that night.

And yeah. He was clearly an issue-laden fuck up. But I was too young to know better - and all my previous boyfriends had been sane and nice. In their own mad gay way.

Oh god. I've just remembered. We played the card game "Cheat" on Valentine's Day. Oh god oh god oh god. It's all coming back to me. Shudder. I'm going to go home and play with my cat. Comfort zone.

And what was up the road from Manchster? I was at St Hugh's. There was a nice croquet pitch there and a truly awful canteen.